Gabrielle, Mistress of the Mirk
by polkaking2
Summary: PreDH,PostHBP AU. HG HrR GabrielleD. Various POV. Chapter Two: Spoiled Surprise - A discourse on plugs, humours, and magnets. A surprise spoiled, and a secret revealed. How did Harry Potter know?
1. Like Losing

A sequel to "G is for Gabrielle" and "He Does Write"

Chapter One - Like Losing

The girl stared at the rambling fieldstone farmhouse as if she had not seen it before. Which she had, but it was the neat stone-dust path, lined with rose bushes still with late summer blooms, and the wide wrought-iron gate that surprised her. This landscaping had not been there in the morning, but now it looked as if the manicured entrance had been there for the centuries the house had suffered.

The girl was really more of young woman, though one had to look closely. If she was a kind of dragon and her scales were carefully examined, one would find fourteen years of growth, though the last few markings could be debated. The girl's, sorry, young woman's name was Gabrielle Delacour, and she was resigned to the description petite. That term was certainly better than slight, short, or insignificant. She had, in fact, grown, but in her opinion it did not count if all her clothes still fit. A meager two centimeters, generously rounded up, in height hardly qualified as a growth spurt, but at least the vague promises on her chest had become definite prominences. The smallest named size, it was true, but they had at least reached a defined size. With strategic structuring cleavage was possible.

Gabrielle was more than just a petite young woman dressed head to toe in black, with cropped blonde hair. She was a witch as well, so it was not the sudden appearance of the roses, gate, and path that made her pause. In the world of magic, things suddenly appeared all the time, like the dray of dead-white squirrels that had colonized the grounds of Delacour Manor. No, what she was having trouble with was why these additions had come to be at the Winterhall Estate. And, eh, who was paying for it.

The hairstyle was her mother's doing, a pixie - in the muggle imagining, at least - cut, because the assembled experts judged that Gabrielle's hair lacked the luxuriousness needed for greater length. Gabrielle would have preferred to have kept her locks longer, because the short cut reminded her too much of those times when her hair had been nibbled to a similar but uneven length, and what had been lost. But she somehow got the sense that her hair had rather liked the attention and praise, and had become, in a way, their hair. Certainly the stubborn tresses refused to grow at all. Or perhaps, Gabrielle thought at times, it was a conspiracy with her ears, which had been declared her best feature. Which was, in her opinion, unlikely, except that she could not see her ears very well.

The monochromatic clothing was difficult to explain and seemingly impossible to get rid of. Gabrielle desperately hoped it would go unnoticed.

"Och, Ah see ye kent th' polish Ah pit oan th' auld place, mah wee mirk lassie."

Gabrielle turned to the speaker, a thickly-built, graying man wearing a knitted sweater, a plaid skirt, and tall, green rubber boots. Eh, that is, kilt. He did not look ancient enough, in her experience, to be a danger, like the insane wizard who had bequeathed her the property, but the skirt worried her a little. That is, the kilt worried her. She assumed he was a wizard, since the man, whose legs were far too hairy, really, for a skirt, had been hired by the goblins of Gringotts as the caretaker. Gabrielle had been assured, after her family had been introduced to the man, that he spoke English. She continued to have her doubts, but now nodded and gave him a small and hopefully appropriate smile. Her mother and father were storing the borrowed car.

"Dae ye hink yer Maw will loch it?" asked the caretaker, blushing slightly. "She's a braw hen, an' yer dad is a verra lucky dobber."

"Eh, yes?" guessed Gabrielle. The caretaker's name was Robert Mac-Something-She-Could-Not-Remember, which made speaking to him even more awkward than not understanding half of what he said already did. What did mirk mean?

"Bonjour, Robert," greeted Gabrielle's mother, who neatly avoided the issue by only speaking French. The slight blush became a furious one as the man hurried to open the new gate. Papa, noted Gabrielle, only glared. Madame Delacour stepped through, cupped a rose in a pale hand, and sniffed it briefly before giving Robert a radiant smile. The gate he held was the only thing that prevented him from sagging to his knees.

The Winterhall Estate was hers, or so the goblin from Gringotts had told Gabrielle, but it did not feel that way. The furnishings were not hers; the linens were not hers. With Maman here, the new furnishings and the new linens were not Gabrielle's either, though they were at least more familiar. The problem for Gabrielle was the lingering presence of Granary Winterhall. Not as a ghost or spirit, drifting through the walls at night when she slept or regaling her at breakfast with endlessly repeated stories of his life. No, it was that Gabrielle could See the past, and the past of the expired Monsieur Winterhall permeated the very walls of the place.

There was, for instance, the spot in the tiny kitchen, between the old wood stove and the window. Gabrielle had stood there by chance on the flustered tour the caretaker had given, and had been rooted in place, nauseated by the taste of the tar on the pipe stem in her mouth while she her nose sought refuge in the faint scent of cherries buried in the noxious cloud she breathed. Her eyes had still seen the field outside, but as a blur of passing seasons. Years reeled by, each one duller and less bright than the one just passed. Her father had lifted her up in his arm like she was a child, breaking the trance. And Gabrielle could not use the small bedroom at the end of the hall at all, not without succumbing to gut-wrenching sobs, since that was where the body of the late Winterhall's murdered daughter had been laid out and mourned. Gabrielle slept on the sofa downstairs, since her parents used the larger bedroom. Which would be fine once her owl, Lieutenant Mimsey Plumes, finished off the mice infesting the chimney. He was not exactly a quiet eater - how did he make those smacking sounds with just a beak? - and he tended to hoot excitedly when he did catch something.

The Winterhall Estate was hers, but Gabrielle could not forbid use of it. She would have much preferred staying at the Burrow with the Weasleys. Gabrielle was certain that Mrs. Weasley would not have minded, and the Weasleys certainly had the room. As far as Gabrielle knew, only Ginny kept a room there now. Even so, of course, family dinners were common, and that, suspected Gabrielle, was the real reason for this exile at the Winterhall Estate. Which was ridiculous, because she had contact with George all the time, though, obviously, not physical contact. The current exile could not prevent that.

The metal beetle with its magicked wings had been vital to Gabrielle's sanity, even if using the artifice was itself maddening. Poking at the little segments on the wing was slow and error-prone, and having to piece together the return message a letter at a time was not any better. George had come up with some improvements, a word that took nearly a minute itself to arrive, but it was impossible for her to make the alterations herself. That the insect was no better than it was when it had been given was something that she did not want to dwell on, because of what it meant.

Gabrielle preferred using her owl, of whom she was rather proud. Lieutenant Mimsey was no longer the scrawny, stupid, half-chewed bird that had volunteered his pathetic services during that horrible summer. Well, he was not so stupid at least. Just, eh, excitable. Under her care, the Lieutenant had grown fully, and then some. His wingspan was nearly one and a half meters, and he was strong enough to lift a dining room chair. His talons were strong enough to gouge the wood of that chair too, something that Maman had not failed to notice. Gabrielle was made to stand at dinners until it was repaired. The bird had made dozens of deliveries to Gabrielle's friends at Beauxbatons, and at least half as many to Britain. The long trips across France and the Channel were nerveracking for Gabrielle, since she was not sure if her owl could swim if the worst happened. She always tried to use the lightest parchment for those letters. What the bird returned with was often heavier, but since the Channel crossing was earlier in the trip on the way back he was not as likely to be tired over the water.

The morning had been spent visiting Gabrielle's new nephew, Louis. He had grown nearly as much as the Lieutenant had since the last time she had seen him, and Gabrielle was quite happy to be his favorite aunt. Louis called her "Ga", or "Ba", or occasionally "Ta", all of which Gabrielle translated as "Aunt Gabrielle, whom I love very much." He was already starting to walk! Sort of. It might have looked more like an extended fall to anyone who did not know how precocious he was. Louis had red hair like his father's, and it was surprisingly thick and silky for a seven month old. His skin was as clear as his mother's, with not a freckle on him. Gabrielle had carried him about the entire visit, half because he had wanted her to and half because it made her feel like a queen. Maman had certainly been a little jealous. The adoration of little Louis almost made up for the disappointment that George was not visiting also, nor Mrs. Weasley, nor even Ginny.

"Gabrielle! What have I told you about this rodent of yours?" The annoyed voice was Gabrielle's mother's, and came from the tiny kitchen. It made Gabrielle sigh, because natural instincts were difficult to change. Autumn was coming, and Sauveuret was hiding food again.

"I am sorry - Maman!" blurted Gabrielle after hurrying to the kitchen. Her mother brandished a stiff and petrified Sauveuret by his tail, his snout transfigured into that of a pig's. "There, eh, there was no reason to do that."

"Now the creature looks as he acts," dismissed Madame Delacour.

Gabrielle cradled the transfigured squirrel in her arms, and bit back any excuses or arguments. After a year of seemingly endless strife and feeling as if she was a disappointment to everyone, Gabrielle was simply glad that she was still welcomed at Delacour Manor, although it was an effort at times.

Sauveuret grunted, authentically pig-like, at her. "You will be fed the whole winter. You know this. It is not even that cold yet!" reminded Gabrielle. She took the animal's over-stuffed cheeks in her hand and squeezed. Out popped two of the specially fortified nuggets that were his normal feed, half a cornichon, and a soggy red ball of yarn.

"And you are not to help him!" scolded Gabrielle. The red ball of yarn was Pepi-Z, her zombie pygmy puffskein. "Honestly! He does not even like pickles." Now she would have to find all of Sauveuret's hiding spots before Maman did. The easiest way to accomplish that would be to set her three toads, the Sisters, to the task, but then that meant letting the amphibians out of their own punishment early. Gabrielle was not sure where the Sisters got their ideas from, because if she did she would put stop it and find them a new source.

Gabrielle sat down on the sofa that doubled as her bed. The upholstery was a dull, green woven fabric, with an oddly nobbly texture to it. She expected that it would not outlast Maman. Gabrielle wedged Sauveuret's tail between two cushions to prop him up. She thought that that might make him look neater and, eh, more domesticated, but she was wrong.

Thoughts of things domestic made Gabrielle shudder, at least when they were associated with the legacy of Monsieur Winterhall. Bill and Fleur lived in a neat, lovely home in St. Otterly Catchpole. Their house was not as cozy, to her at least, as the Weasley's home the Burrow on the other side of the village, though Gabrielle could easily imagine living there herself after marrying George. Then it would be Fleur who was not allowed into certain rooms, instead of her!

Not that Fleur and Bill would live there much longer. Fleur always attracted a lot of attention in the village, of course, but one Look and even the boldest would retreat. That was not the case with Louis. No amount of charms could keep back the adoring strangers when Fleur took him out in the pram. This so disconcerted her sister that Fleur insisted on moving. The Shell Cottage sounded very nice, and it was a seaside property, which sounded interesting, but it was much further from the Burrow. That would not matter once it was connected to the Floo network, but until then it would make visits from Louis' favorite aunt more difficult.

v - v - v - v - v

"Gabrielle! Are you dressed yet? We are leaving soon," called Madame Delacour from the top of the stairs. The new bathroom was hers; Gabrielle made do with the kitchen sink for washing up. The less said about the tiny, rickety building out the back, the better.

"Already?" asked Gabrielle in surprise. Though a question, it was enough of an answer for her mother.

"Hurry up! I do - not - want your father to feel rushed," ordered Gabrielle's mother.

"Yes, Maman," agreed Gabrielle. The sigh that accompanied the reply was not theatrically enhanced. This was another example of what Maman called maturity, which Gabrielle came to understand as 'not arguing'.

The sigh was for the reflection in the mirror. Gabrielle was dressed - how long could it take when everything was the same color? But, was she - dressed - ? That was something that was much harder to discern. The dress she wore was one of the horrors from her childhood, but now it was very tolerable as the bright floral pattern on a yellow background had become very subtle patterns of black on more black. The hem had been also been adjusted slightly upward, and the work was straighter than most of her previous attempts. Gabrielle wore it with warm tights, also black - as if she had any choice in that. Tights were an amazing accessory - they clearly showed her legs, yet she was also demurely covered. They were cheap too, because color and pattern hardly mattered. Gabrielle could buy from the bargain bin, and still wind up with the purchase matching perfectly. Because it would be black. The combination was definitely not a child's fashion, but did it send the message that she was a capable yet quite-ordinary-and-not-living-a-cursed-life-in-any-way young witch - mature young witch - who wanted some answers? Would a skirt be better? Gabrielle now regretted taking the time to check her socks for acorns after finding Sauveuret's cache of crackers in her trunk.

The only spot of color was the freshly washed Pepi-Z, clipped to her hair by his tether. And, as always, the pendant that Nona had given her. The leather cord had been replaced by a slim silver chain, though the polished stone was now kept in a cloth satchel - black, of course. The satchel was necessary because there had been... issues... with it before.

"Ah, Gabrielle, my dearest," addressed her father as he entered. Gabrielle turned, and raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Her father was half-covered in oily sludge and looked like he had been too close to a lightning-catcher. "I wonder if you might - "

"Papa! What has happened?"

"Hush, my little cabbage. There was… a problem, slight, with the car. I - I know you can contact that, that George. I just need a small -"

"Henri? There is smoke," called Gabrielle's mother from upstairs.

"It is nothing, my queen."

"It is a lot of smoke, Henri. Has Gabrielle set fire to the plantings? Again?"

"I did no such thing! And, eh, that was an accident," protested Gabrielle. "I have already apologized for that."

"I am done for," moaned Monsieur Delacour. He headed out of the house with drooping shoulders, and Gabrielle followed.

The car, borrowed from the Weasleys, was the source of the thick, dark smoke. It came from the front part of the car, which had the cover up. Gabrielle's father produced his wand and aimed a stream of water from it onto the convoluted metal. Gabrielle took out her wand, conveniently tucked up a sleeve, to help. She had been studying a number of useful spells for these situations. Which were not all that common, at all, thought Gabrielle, though one would not think that the way Maman went on. She raised her wand, but found her father's hand on it.

"There is a restriction on under-age magic here. You must remember that," warned the elder Delacour.

"Oh, eh, that is right," said Gabrielle dejectedly. The Winterhall Estate lacked the extensive warding that the Burrow had. Those kept the Ministry detectors from, eh, detecting, and it seemed to Gabrielle that mostly Ministry families had them. "The tire is still burning," she added helpfully.

Gabrielle watched her father fight the flames, and wondered if this could constitute an emergency. She could use her wand then. There was the Flameproof Mousse spell, for instance, or Schiele's Snuffer-Outer. Both would make short work of the persistent fire, and the mousse also had a pleasant lemon flavor.

"Havin' a wee motur trouble, mistress ay th' mirk?" asked Robert, the caretaker. Gabrielle startled. Where had he come from? "Ah can gie ye a hain when the fire is it. Ah ken a bit abit muggle cars."

"Eh," began Gabrielle. A bit a bit? That sounded small. Was he making fun of her height?

"What hae ye dain, man? Th' pistony things ur stickin' it!"

v - v - v - v -v

"It is unnatural," complained Monsieur Delacour quietly. The car, with the very boisterous help of the caretaker, was back in running order. Minus the 'pistony things', however, which were now in the boot.

"Yes, Papa. But see? We are going faster now," replied Gabrielle. She was sitting in the front of the car, next to her father. Three red lights were blinking on the panel in front of her. That was new. Her mother sat regally in the back, with her eyes closed. "The British drive on the left side."

"I did not think that applied to wizards also."

Gabrielle rolled her eyes at that, but she knew her father was feeling embarrassed, so she took pity on him. "It, eh, does not. It does apply to the cars, though."

"Ah. That could have been clearer, kitten." That made Gabrielle frown. The condition of Mr. Weasley's car was - not - going to be her fault. Oh, an orange light now. The symbols on the lights meant nothing to Gabrielle.

"The travel is more comfortable now," added Madame Delacour. "It is almost pleasant."

"Perhaps we could go even a little faster?" hinted Gabrielle. They were leading a long queue of cars along the two lane road. The frustrated muggles stormed past at any opportunity. Gabrielle wondered what the other drivers thought of it, since the Weasley's car was Unnoticable with the charms.

The car lurched as their speed increased, but only briefly. "Henri, my love, I prefer the more sedate pace."

v - v - v - v - v

The Burrow came into view once the correct single track road had been found. And that was done only after fortuitously coming across the turn originally missed. Gabrielle suspected that that was more due to blind luck than her father's navigational skills. Her Maman had praised those skills, but Gabrielle thought that perhaps they were imaginary. She was sure that a quick Point-Me would have been safe if he would have kept his wand down. Maman was very pleased that the trip would soon be over. Gabrielle had to believe that the other drivers on the road would be very pleased as well, since Papa's uncertain course made him even more of an obstruction.

The last visit Gabrielle had made to the Burrow and the Weasleys was at the beginning of the summer, in June. A visit which tragically coincided with Fred dragging George to some 'exclusive zone' in Ukraine for the entire time she was in Britain. Which, unfortunately, might not have just been down to Fred's basic trollishness. There was the possibility, suspected Gabrielle, that the circumstances were the result of a conspiracy between Fred and her father. That would have been a ridiculously unlikely thought a year ago, but… But being expelled from Beauxbatons - unjustly and unfairly expelled! - had not only ruined her life, it had nearly ruined everything.

The order expelling Gabrielle from Beauxbatons was kept secret at the beginning while the first of a long series of appeals were made. These were rejected, sometimes so quickly that it made one wonder if the owl with the refusal had set out before the owl with the petition. Once the term had begun, though, there was no hiding it. Particularly if one took a class with Professor Duedancorp or Professor Duedancorp - they answered questions with more than a little smugness, or so her best friend Monique had written.

The timing of the awful decree, and the delay resulting from the futile attempts to overturn it, left few options for continuing Gabrielle's magical training. Fewer by half again, after taking into account Papa's restrictions - only witches were suitable tutors. And the candidates still needed to pass the scrutiny of her mother, which, as far as Gabrielle could tell, meant only witches older than Maman were deemed acceptable. The rest were 'flighty' or 'undisciplined' or even 'silly'. Unfortunately, the available teachers meeting all the requirements were either too ill, too wary, or too busy to add another student. Two, however, did offer an apprenticeship.

An apprentice was, Gabrielle had come to learn, very much like a student, except instead of spending the day with friends and fellow students she spent it with a grumpy taskmaster. And, instead of a palace replete with house-elves, there was only the lowly apprentice to take care of - everything -. It was like living with Nona all day, with less ladle and more scolding. Gabrielle was apprenticed to Madame Noircallot, whose home was not at all large enough to escape her snoring. Madame Noircallot also tutored several other witches and wizards; Gabrielle was often used for demonstrations. Or, perhaps, target practice, something which ceased when Gabrielle showed that she could manage a decent shield spell.

Reflecting back, Gabrielle knew that Nona had saved her again, even if the old Albanian crone would never realize. It was while working at the crystal ball, reaching over to right a toppled candle that was already spilling its wax onto the carpet, that the pendant from Nona that Gabrielle wore, sempre, slipped free. Madame Noircallot was spouting utter nonsense about the importance of breathing at the time. Gabrielle was pretty sure everyone would know that breathing was important; it was like saying a beating heart was important. The older witch had startled when she spotted the pendant, and then swore, which startled Gabrielle. Gabrielle had then swore herself, because she had dropped the candle and set a patch of the carpet on fire. That was put out quickly with a small flood of the lemony spell, and then Gabrielle was put out. Put out, dismissed, and sent away. Thank Merlin that Lieutenant Mimsey had not been off to Beauxbatons at the time, and that Monsieur Toulier had not been out in his lorry, because otherwise she would have been stranded.

Maman, recalled Gabrielle, had been put out as well, very much so. The only thing that limited her anger was that when they returned to Madame Noircallot's home the following day, so Gabrielle could grovel, apologize, and beg for a second chance, they found the place completely deserted. That lent credence to Gabrielle's version of events, which was that Madame Noircallot had completely lost her senses and any regard for the students in her care. While her mother was forced to accept that explanation, the blame still fell upon Gabrielle for the old witch's sudden descent into insanity. Unfairly fell, Gabrielle would insist, for all that mattered; it had become, for Maman, a Pattern of Behavior.

The undeserved abandonment, the description Gabrielle preferred over 'second expulsion in as many months', could not have come at a worse moment. Especially when it came to receiving any sympathy or understanding. Papa had continued to file appeals, and called upon many favors to open several lines of inquiry into affairs at Beauxbatons. Particularly affairs having to do with the new tower. He had been very aggressive, Gabrielle knew, because Maman felt that the Delacour name was sullied. That did not keep her from blaming Gabrielle for everything, of course. Unfortunately, Madame Maxime had connections as well, and in a particularly rancorous, particularly inconvenient hearing, it was revealed that the source of certain contraband, the Weasley Wheezes, had been none other than the daughter of one of those who had pushed the hardest for the restrictions. The result was an embarrassment for Gabrielle's father, and, being the way that favor for governing works, that which was done for the favors that the Delacour patriarch had called in was then itself called into question. Papa was not sacked outright, but was reassigned to a less influential position inside the Labyrinth beneath the French Ministry. It was more genteel, but the message was the same: get lost.

That was not a happy memory, at all. In any way. The explosion when the news reached the Delacour household marked the nadir of Gabrielle's fourteen years. Rash words and rash actions had followed, with many more words after the actions. It had been like living with an everlasting Howler. This began the Black Period; at least Gabrielle hoped it was a period since that implied that it would end. Which it had not done so far. No more, Gabrielle quickly reminded herself, mostly to think of something else, pentagrams. Ever.

Just as abruptly as the Delacour household had fallen apart, suddenly - magically - fortune returned. Another apprenticeship had been found; it was in the southern part of France. That was… better, because what was said could not be unsaid1 and what was done could not be undone.2 Then the very same night, Gabrielle's father had come home late, so late that Gabrielle feared the the Labyrinth had claimed him. He announced that he had resigned his position at the Ministry. That shock was followed by another, which was that he was now the proprietor of a small distillery specializing in fortified wines.3 With partners, whom he did not name. Maman, recalled Gabrielle, somehow managed to be shocked, upset, enthusiastic, and suspicious all at the same time. A new product was in development, and the mysterious associates needed local management.

The new apprenticeship was with Madame Pommejoues. If the witch was older than Gabrielle's mother, it was not by much, and both flighty and, well, not silly but unserious came to mind. Gabrielle was sure that her Maman would have rejected the offer, except that Professor Elevagre, Gabrielle's former Natural Arts instructor, had interceded. The potential prestige added by the endorsement tipped the balance to accepting. Gabrielle's own opinion on the matter was, of course, not considered at all.

Madame Pommejoues was relentlessly cheerful, quite fat, and a bit on the short side. That made her the complete opposite of Monsieur Pommejoues, who was eternally sour, almost emaciated, and tall. The Pommejoues ran a shop in French magical village of Chamoix that offered a wide variety of magical creatures for sale, though they specialized in kneazles and crossbreeds. The pair also raised most of their own stock, too. That was where the apprentice came in. Madame Pommejoues took care of and fed her prize kneazles, while Gabrielle was expected to care for the rest and clean everything. That was nothing when it came to the toads (specially bred), the African streelers, or the horklumps, but it was quite another cauldron when it came to the jarveys, the jumping ferrets, and the griffin. Who would want a jarvey? Worse were the ones Gabrielle knew were rejects. These were creatures who were old, injured, or unwanted. Or all three, as in the case of a blind Hebridean Black dragon with a mangled wing. The dragon appeared too old to do more than snarl at her, and that was good because Gabrielle was certain she would not be able to run in Madame Pommejoues' oversized leathers. Gabrielle did not like the dragon, Corey, because she had to bring the scaly, lazy lump a live deer each morning, and then call out directions to the lumbering creature to help it find its fresh blood meal.

For an apprenticeship, in Gabrielle's opinion, there was too much dung and far too little magic. Madame Pommejoues, Gabrielle decided, was no better at potions than she was, at least after the second or third try, and Gabrielle had not been shown any magic beyond some basic household spells and those useful in herding cats. There was nothing to further her careers in Seeing and curse-breaking. Monsieur Pommejoues was no help either. He completely ignored her, and if he did need something done he referred to her as 'the help'. The thought had come to Gabrielle that perhaps Professor Elevagre had received some of Madame Maxime's wrath too, and was passing it along in this favor. The entire year would have been a loss if it had not been for her own resources, which were delivered by the Lieutenant from George. Even so, between chores, tending the assorted creatures, and self-study, there was hardly any time at all for scrying. Which, a second thought noted, was probably a good thing.

Apprentices are not like students, however, when it comes to holidays, because there were no holidays. The week in June was only grudgingly allowed, and only because Monsieur Pommejoues had answered when Madame Delacour made her persuasive request via Floo. But even that meager break was ruined, except, of course, for Gabrielle's beautiful nephew Louis, because George was not there. The hint that there might be a conspiracy leading to George's absence came from the piles of paper in her father's den with circles made from colored wedges. Those provided enough evidence for Gabrielle to assign blame. The wedges meant a private computator, or "PC", the "PC" meant Philippe, and if Philippe was involved then that meant that the Weasley twins were Papa's silent partners. That was logic. It followed then, logically, that it was Fred's fault that the trip to Ukraine just happened to be during Gabrielle's precious week.

This time, as the Burrow finally drew closer, the visit was more of a surprise, and the reason behind it still secret, in case there actually was a jinx. That is, a second jinx. The unannounced plans, thought Gabrielle, probably explained Maman's insistence on using the Winterhall Estate, even though Gabrielle was certain the Weasleys would not have minded the imposition. Mrs. Weasley would have welcomed them as enthusiastically as she did now, waving cheerfully from the window.

The car rattled to a stop just past the house, halfway to Mr. Weasley's shed, in which the vehicle would probably be making a long stay. This did not worry Gabrielle, since that would mean that she would be making a long stay. She burst from the car, only to be rebuked by her mother. Gabrielle carefully rolled her eyes - before - turning back for an inspection, since that was a sign of maturity.

Madame Delacour was out of the car quickly as well. She often said that wheels affected her humours. When Gabrielle came to her, she quickly ran her fingers through her daughter's hair. "Your hair is good… Not so… Where are your earrings?"

Gabrielle could hear the ellipses, and that was another sign of maturity as her mother, in exchange for the lack of argument, supposed Gabrielle, began leaving off phrases like 'for once' and 'flat and dull'. Except, this time Gabrielle had made an effort and used the secret muggle salve on her hair. It had apricot extract in it. Allegedly, since the list of ingredients were neither recognizable potion fodder nor a list of botanicals. The concoction did, however, leave her hair just a little bit livelier and a little bit shinier. "Eh, I could not wear them because of the ferrets. The piercings closed up again." Having a jumping ferret dangling from an ear was not something worth repeating.

Madame Delacour sighed quietly. Gabrielle knew that the jewelry was meant to draw attention to her ears, her reputedly best feature. But she had a picture now of one of her ears4, and it was, in her opinion, just an ear. There was no reason to go on giving it airs. Gabrielle turned back to the house.

"Gabrielle," began the Delacour matron. "You may - borrow - this, - just - for today." In her hand was a bright red, silk scarf.

The emphasis was, Gabrielle knew, not exactly intended for her, but for the lingering jinx that beset her as the Black Period continued. On the unfortunate day that it began, the day all her brains had forsaken her at the worst of moments, all her clothes had turned black. And, as if to prove Maman could become angrier, all the clothes that were meant to replace the magically ruined ones turned black too. If an item was given to, bought for, or bought by Gabrielle, it turned black. Somehow, clothes that were simply borrowed did not, if the lender really meant it. Which was a little worrisome, because the dress that Nona had forced on her once had not turned black. It remained its ugly dirt brown color, which implied to Gabrielle the the old witch was expecting the drab frock back. Even though it fit and was the only thing in her entire wardrobe that was not the exact same shade of black, Gabrielle never wore it.

Gabrielle quickly tied the scarf around her neck, then, after noticing her Maman's expression, untied the smooth cloth and made a show of trying to re-tie it using the tiny, mysterious mirrors that were, inexplicably, stuck on the outside of the car. The performance was another act of maturity, because it allowed Gabrielle to hand the scarf back to her mother with the request that she tie the cloth. All without commentary or arguments. That was better, but a second thought opined that it still felt like losing.

Madame Delacour took only a few seconds to arrange the colorful accessory with her wand. A look in the car's mirror showed that it was carefully arranged to look carelessly tied, and gave the blackness a dramatic flair. The effort was, Gabrielle thought, not much different than her own, but it looked much better. Perfect, in fact.

"I can show you the spell, later, if you wish," offered Madame Delacour graciously. Less graciously she added, "But only if you promise to practice it - a hundred times! - using a pole or tree. Or that rodent. I do not want you to choke yourself."

Gabrielle gave her mother a patient smile and said nothing before turning to hug Mrs. Weasley hello. The careful smile theoretically put her one up, if only she could convince herself that she was not losing.

1 This was only partially true. There were memory charms after all.

2 She had tried, many times.

3 Magically fortified wines, of course, in addition to the traditional.

4 The normal method to see one's own ear in full is to use two mirrors. A method that is far too dangerous for a witch or wizard to use for such a trivial purpose. For if a wizard should catch more than a glimpse of the infinite, he risks losing the sense of which reality is his own. A search through the infinite can take more than a lifetime.


	2. Spoiled Surprise

Chapter Two - Spoiled Surprise

Gabrielle browsed Mr. Weasley's collection of plugs and batteries. She was in the shed, helping her father understand Mr. Weasley. Together the men worked on the car just outside the wide door. The plugs were many shapes and sizes, all with their long tails neatly trimmed short and mounted to the board with long pins. It was just like a collection of beetles, only without all the legs. The collection was interesting at first, but since this was the third wall-mounted board with two more to go… Gabrielle could not help but wonder if seeing what the plugs had once been attached to would have been more a bit more engaging. What made one plug better to use than another? The collection of batteries was smaller, but a little more intriguing. They came in many more shapes and sizes. Philippe, her childhood friend who happened to be a squib, had many things that used the smaller, rod-shaped batteries, but Mr. Weasley had large block-shaped ones as well. There was even a series of the somewhat familiar rod-shaped batteries displaying various states of decay.

When Gabrielle was younger and stayed at the Toulier's, in case she was a squib, because Maman listened to Aunt Laurel too often, Philippe had showed her a muggle grimoire. The grimoire was actually a long series of books that contained, Philippe asserted, almost everything muggles knew. That included eltricities, which was used with plugs and batteries. Gabrielle felt she had a pretty good handle on eltricities, which was the proper pronunciation that she had been taught. Or at least the French one. She had had to translate Philippe's terms into more meaningful ones, of course, but she grasped the basic idea.

Eltricities began with magnets. Magnets were themselves very interesting, and very useful for potions affecting the blood humour. They were also, according to the notes Gabrielle had been able to study, used in spells and potions meant to aid searches, and even in devices for finding direction. The notes had included a long sidebar on a discredited branch of thought that believed that magnets were actually a type of magic that both wizards and muggles could use. While still wrong, the notion seemed less incredible to Gabrielle. According to the muggle grimoire, magnets had a humour that flowed not only through the magnet itself, a radical idea on its own since there were usually no holes in them, but also through the air. That seemed a little suspect to Gabrielle. Philippe had argued that all humours flowed through the air, except that in the body there was so much of the vital essence that all the air was pushed out. That was why blood sometimes spurted. He also said that even solid materials were made of bits and pieces that only nearly fit together, leaving just the tiniest of gaps. Gabrielle did not completely believe that since she felt very well-packed herself. At the other end of the wand, though, magnets were clearly able to affect things outside of themselves.

The eltricities were made by shaving off a bit of the magnet's humour with a wire, similar to the way a sample of cheese was served, if Gabrielle had understood correctly. The bits of humour were transferred to the wire, which then flowed along the wire. Gabrielle supposed that wires only looked solid too. The muggles in the pictures in the grimoire used huge spindles of wires to grate the poor magnet's humours into eltricities. The bundles had looked larger than Mr. Weasley's shed! Gabrielle had always felt that that was kind of cruel, even if magnets were only a type of rock. The question of why the magnet's humours were not quickly used up was not something Philippe had an answer for, probably because his grimoire did not have the answer. How the stolen humour turned into pictures on the télé was also something that -

"(Gabrielle, my child, what does he mean?)" prompted Gabrielle's father. She had learned to accept that he would always see her as a child - more maturity.

"(Eh, what?)" asked Gabrielle. "I am, eh, sorry, Mr. Weasley. What did you say?" She frankly hoped that he had declared the car irreparable, at least immediately, and that they were welcome to stay.

"It's all right - batteries are simply fascinating. But, I was just saying that I can see what your father was trying to do. Increasing the reach of the anti-muggle and cushioning charms with speed would be just grand. The bristle yanker here, I'm afraid, is the speed of the, er, inside bits does not always match the speed of the outside bits. Can't fathom why, mind you, but that at least explains the motor coming apart," said Mr. Weasley, pointing at various things at the front of the car with his wand. Gabrielle wondered if perhaps she should have moved closer to see what was being indicated. Oh well.

"(He said he liked what you tried to do, but it can not work because all the things don't have the same speed. That is why you broke his car,)" translated Gabrielle, liberally. Her father's grasp of English would have been better if he had not worked for the French Ministry. A little guilt would make Papa less confrontational should she ever escape the shed and should George arrive.

"(The speeds of what?)" asked Gabrielle's father, leaning over the oily mess at the front. Mr. Weasley pointed with his wand some more. "(There is a belt here that turns these smaller wheels. Surely they are all turning the same?)"

Gabrielle groaned quietly. Why had Papa suddenly become interested in cars? He almost always travels by Floo, and was quite good at apparating. "(The outside speed does not match the inside speed.)" Although, supposed Gabrielle, Papa's habits might have changed since he no longer worked in the Ministry.

"(Must muggles make everything so difficult?)" asked Gabrielle's father.

Gabrielle did not bother with a reply. She was busy fetching out the metal beetle from her handbag. Checking the crudely drawn arrow on the wing membrane that pointed to George's beetle, and the numbers next to the glowing symbol, showed that he had not arrived yet. The arrow and numbers did remind Gabrielle of something else, however. "(Eh, there is a, eh, sort of clock face near the inside-wheel-for-steering. I think that it shows the outside speed?)"

Too late, Gabrielle realized her mistake. The casual, unthinking observation galvanized the two men into a closer examination of the workings of the vehicles insides, which meant she had to stay. She was required both for the clarifications needed as the car was magically disassembled and for her expertise, the full extent of which she had already shown. Not that that deterred her father and Mr. Weasley from consulting with her about all the colored wires they had found. Gabrielle needed to escape; George was finally on the move. Not that he was getting closer - the number under the wing casing was increasing in big jumps.

"We-ell, I don't know. All these colors, hey? Do you think it's alright to tie up all the orangey wires together, or do they need sorting by shade?" asked Mr. Weasley. He ran his fingers through the peninsula of hair on the top of his head; it was well on its way to becoming an island.

"I zink zey need to be sorted," replied Gabrielle. She did not actually know for certain, but the colored bundles had been very neat prior to the vehicle's disembowelment.

Mr. Weasley sighed. "Well, you know your onions, I suppose." He bent over the thin wires tangled into a squirrel's nest at the end of the flat ribbon.

Gabrielle puzzled over his comment. She certainly had come to know onions that awful summer with Nona. Why had Mr. Weasley dredged that up now? It was confusing and a little annoying.

Or, perhaps, just British. An idiom of some sort, one that inspired Gabrielle. Not along the lines of onions; she was thinking of things British. "Eh, I should make ze tea," she announced.

"Tea? Yes, that would be lovely," murmured Mr. Weasley, squinting at his work. A wave of his wand left a satisfied look appear on his face; the same action caused a loud grinding noise at the front of the car.

Gabrielle hurried away on her self-imposed errand. In theory, at least. That was the importance of the word should. Should was not would and definitely not will, although the most proper word to have used there was could. Saying that she should do something was not really a promise that she would do whatever that something had been. It only acknowledged that the something was a possible course of action; one of many. Gabrielle had already determined that a better course of action was to go into the house, find Mrs. Weasley, and offer to help her. Should was a little misleading, but definitely not a lie.

A second thought noted that intending to help Mrs. Weasley was also a bit misleading. The insane old house-elf, Geff, lived with the Weasley's now. Gabrielle expected that he would be told to do most of the chores, and that her offer to help would be polite and conscientious - and turned down. After being polite and conscientious - mature, polite, and conscientious - she could relax while waiting for George. Or leave a surprise, or two, in Ginny's room…

v - v - v - v - v

There was a garden gnome hiding behind a large brown toadstool, his lumpy head and filthy clothing allowing him to blend in almost perfectly. The only subtle flaw to his camouflage was that the gnome had dragged the toadstool up onto the the stoop of the Burrow's front door, where it, and he, were decidedly noticeable. The little creature was very likely a member of George and Fred's Guardin' Gnome Corps, thought Gabrielle. And not one of the more senior members. She considered greeting the tiny sentinel, but decided against it. The proud members of the Corps often got a little testy if one pointed out that they were not totally invisible, which was also often.

Gabrielle found her mother and Mrs. Weasley sitting at the table in the informal dining room. The table was strewn with many photographs and albums. The two women stopped speaking and sat back in their chairs as soon as she had entered. It was actions like that, thought Gabrielle, that tempted a person to listen at a door before entering. Gabrielle eyed them suspiciously, but did not say anything.

Mrs. Weasley cracked first. At least, she coughed sheepishly before Gabrielle's mother could ask if Gabrielle's stomach was hurting, which is something she would do to remind Gabrielle that her Look was not working. "Ah, Gabrielle, dear. Er -"

"Molly 'as more pict-chairs of Louis zan I," announced Madame Delacour, to Mrs. Weasley's obvious surprise.

"Eh, what?" asked Gabrielle. She was also surprised, both by her mother's rudeness and by the fact that anyone had cracked at all.

"Eet eez true."

"Maman!"

"I can assure you, my dear Apolline," said Mrs. Weasley stiffly, "that we have sent copies of all that we could. You'll need to speak with your daughter about the rest."

"Gabrielle? What 'as she done now?" asked Madame Delacour.

"Maman! She is speaking of Fleur. Eh, I am sure of zis," blurted Gabrielle. She looked to Mrs. Weasley for some sign of confirmation.

"It's the twins, I'm afraid. Fleur won't let me send any photos of them with Louis," sighed Mrs. Weasley. "I think it's because there's always someone upside down in them."

"Zey hold Louis upside-down?" asked Gabrielle. She could not be shocked by the revelation, because, well… But she could be worried.

"It's not always Louis," explained Mrs. Weasley. "It was Bill once. Once. We had to have Madame Pomfrey 'round to see to Fred afterward."

That was straying a little closer to forbidden topics than she would like, worried Gabrielle. "Is Ginny here?" she asked, backing toward the door. If necessary, she could always make tea.

"Sorry, dear. Harry's flying today," replied Mrs. Weasley. "They'll be along a bit later."

"Eh, okay. I, eh, should check on Papa," said Gabrielle. Like she should make the tea.

Gabrielle had left the room before Madame Delacour gave Mrs. Weasley a smile. "I was, Molly, making ze joke, of course."

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle slipped up the stairs of the Burrow, keeping to the outside edges of the stairs so they would make less noise. Anyone who saw her would laugh themselves silly over her ridiculous, wide-legged gait, but the whole point of the exercise was to make sure no one knew that she was there to look at.

Not that Gabrielle needed to be worried about being caught by Ginny. She should have guessed that the Weasley daughter would be watching Harry Potter. The headline in the Daily Prophet when he had joined the Chudley Cannons had been even larger than when he had made known He-Who-Could-Not-Be-Named's latest setback. Although, Gabrielle had to admit, given the length there almost any other headline could use larger font. The issues of the Prophet after the team's announcement were swollen by letters of outrage from a cadre of thirty or so diehard Cannon supporters. Their number were small, but they had had many miserable seasons of practice in complaining and easily bulked up the opinion section with their diatribes. The main complaint was that the team should have been investing in keepers, beaters, chasers, brooms, and coaches instead of signing on a celebrity as a seeker. This dedicated cadre decried the blatant attempt to gin up ticket sales with a face instead of striving for a quality product on the pitch.

The daily broadsheet was even thicker after Harry's first game, where he had managed to capture the snitch while dangling below his broom after dodging a vicious bludger. The Cannons had not won the game, but they had only barely lost. Then the letters to the editors became long and less well written complaints from the supporters of the other teams, alleging intricate conspiracy theories, shady deals, and tampering. The fervent Cannons contingent began to worry, at length also, that the games would no longer be good value for the sickles, what with Potter ending the games before the opposing teams tired themselves out scoring.

The warring letters had been interesting at first, but not for very long. Especially since the added bulk had driven up the price of international delivery. Gabrielle ended up cancelling her subscription. She had no time to keep up with the news at all during her apprenticeship, and she did not need the extra practice in reading English. Anyway, the Wizarding Wireless Network reported on the events of every single Cannons match.

The door to Ginny's room was locked. That was not a surprise, since if Gabrielle could keep her own mother out of her room, she would. Still, there was no point in trying to be silent if one was just going to end up casting spells in the hallway. There was nothing else she could do though; she had not practiced with the bent little wires from Philippe in ages. Gabrielle touched her hand to the ever vigilant Pepi-Z tied in her hair, and pulled her wand from her sleeve. "_Alohomora_," she said firmly, but quietly. Nothing happened, but that was not unusual. Gabrielle sometimes felt that her wand needed to be warmed up a little before it was at its best. She cast the spell again, with a little more emphasis on the "ah" syllables.

Nothing continued to happen, and the door remained locked. That might, thought Gabrielle, mean that she needed to try the spell yet again, or it might mean that the door was sealed magically beyond what the basic opener spell could undo. The trouble was that she could not tell the difference. Gabrielle knew of spells that could discern the nature of the sealing magic, if any, but she had had nothing to practice them on during her time with the Pommejoues'. Thick iron bolts and only the occasional padlock were all that were needed to secure the cages. Really thick iron bolts, when it came to the dragon enclosure, but expert curse-breaking skills were not required even then. Only cleaning and vanishing skills, once inside.

Gabrielle brought up her wand again, and this time cast the single curse-breaker spell that she was certain would work. It was the spell that that Stanislaw had showed her when the idiot Festeller made them open the vampire's crypt. Gabrielle then mentally apologized for the thought - Festeller had not deserved to be killed, although badly injured would have been okay. One should not think ill of the dead. Or was it only speak, out loud, of the dead?

The spell was not particularly interesting from a magic point of view. As far as Gabrielle could tell, the only effect was a sort of extension to her wand, one that could catch onto other magics. After that it seemed to be a matter of physical strength. That could be a problem for her future in the discipline, regardless of the exhausting efforts of the recent servitude.

Gabrielle ran her wand along the edges of Ginny's bedroom door. If there was a ward or charm or even a verklunk - whatever that was - then she could not detect it. She moved her wand to the keyhole, feeling for the tiny opening with the invisible extension of her wand. Once found, she pushed the magic into the keyhole itself.

This was a mostly reliable trick, and it was one Gabrielle could practice as she made the rounds of the cages. The petite wand was definitely handier than the overloaded keyring, which she inevitably fumbled, but not, perhaps, as fast. Gabrielle twisted her blond wand back and forth, and changed the angle a few times. She always wondered if Philippe would be angry if he found out that she hardly ever used the specially bent wires anymore.

The lock released with a sudden click, which both pleased and disappointed Gabrielle. Why, she wondered, had the first spell not worked? Had her wand not been quite ready yet? Would one more try have done it? Or had Ginny done something to the lock mechanism itself? Gabrielle pulled her wand away from the keyhole, and looked at it closely. Why?

Why, echoed a second thought, in a more introspective vein, was she doing this? Ginny would certainly guess who was responsible, and Maman would certainly see a Pattern of Behavior in need of correction. Especially after the long, very long, talk about how Gabrielle was running out of chances, a talk during which Gabrielle had had to be very, very mature.

Gabrielle pulled open the door and slipped inside Ginny's room. Why she was doing this - considering doing this - reconsidering doing this - was that she felt that George would be disappointed if she did not. Part of Gabrielle, the quarter that was Veela she supposed, knew that this was wrong; that it was George who should be trying to impress her. She usually ignored that part of herself because she was not Fleur, and knew very well that she would look ridiculous if she tried to be like Fleur. And anyway, that quarter was apparently concentrated in her ears. Except… She had not seen George in nearly a year. The promised "partner goodwill tour" had not occurred, or even been mentioned. Of course, thought Gabrielle, she had not been at Beauxbatons - do not dwell on it - to act as the partner, but that had all been a ruse to fool Fred. Had it not?

Gabrielle attached one side of the novelty card to the frame of the door. Her sticking charms were always lacking in the stickiness aspect, so she used pieces of double-sided tape that Philippe had shared. These were nearly as difficult to use as the charms, and not easy to get out of one's hair. The card, which was like a holiday card, but for someone whom one did not like, was a Weasley Greating Card. That was a pun within a pun, or so she had been told, though Gabrielle had never been able to work it out. She had received a set of them from George in one of his regular letters.

The other side of the card was affixed to the door itself, in such a way that the stationery would open when the door did. George often sent little gifts, like the Wheezes, in his letters. Actually, Gabrielle had to admit, the enclosed tokens were always Wheezes. Gabrielle did not mind that as long as she did not think on it too long; she liked the letters - the messages between the beetles was maddening. Gabrielle had given up on any subtlety in her correspondence entirely. She signed her return missives 'with love', dotted her i's with hearts, and even changed the 'o' in George to a heart. In response, George used small fishes in place of the l's in her name and drew flames over the i's. They looked like little candles flickering on the page. Gabrielle consoled herself with the fact that at least he had noticed.

Gabrielle activated the Wheeze barring the door, then draped a towel over the chair at the vanity. A prank was funnier if there was a second or even a third part, at least according to George. More of the muggle tape was needed, and the muggle spring traps that were used for catching rats. The magical handbag - was - a difficult gift for George to top. She just wished that she could say he was -

"Oh, Merde," hissed Gabrielle, looking back at the magical prank already set on the door. She really should have been paying closer attention; she had gotten ahead of herself. Well, she thought, going out the window was not too bad. Her handbag held a broom which, if asked about it, she would describe as 'custom'. Gabrielle began sticking the traps to the inside of the towel. This part was decidedly fiddly and dangerous.

Gabrielle was nearly finished carefully adjusting the way the 'convenient' towel hung over the chair when she was startled by a loud, indelicate, and flatulent splat. This was followed by an equally loud declaration of doom. "Bloody hell! I will kill them!" At the very same moment, because Gabrielle was startled, there were a half dozen snaps. Gabrielle shrieked and flailed, trying to untangle the towel, the traps, and her fingers. At least, that is, until the Petrificus spell took hold. She toppled backwards, looking up at a very annoyed Ginny Weasley, whose face was dripping stinksap.

"(I am sorry!)" blurted Gabrielle. "(Ginny -)"

"And a prop-air French greeting for you," said Ginny. She bent over Gabrielle and rubbed her cheeks on each side of Gabrielle's face, smearing the noxious sap all over.

"Ginny, it hurts!" pleaded Gabrielle.

"And so, what? You think it wasn't going to hurt me? You utterly stupid little cow," scolded Ginny. She carefully pulled the towel free, leaving the sprung traps on Gabrielle's fingers. The pinned digits were going blue and numb. "You used so many!"

"I said I was sorry!" whimpered Gabrielle. Numb fingers did not hurt as much, but were likely closer to falling off. "It, eh, was only two boxes."

"Here's one that didn't go. I wonder what I can catch in it?" teased Ginny. Gabrielle eyes widened in fear as the deadly, to small rodents at least, device was waved just in front of her nose.

"Ginny, please! I am sorry, I am sorry!"

"Yeah, you are. But about what, I wonder?" said Ginny. "It's an easy thing to say, but what will you do?"

"Anyzing!" exclaimed Gabrielle. It was a lie, of course. This was duress, so that was all right.

"Hmm. You'll help Mum with the cooking?"

"Oui. Of course," said Gabrielle quickly. That was no different, in Gabrielle's experience, than being an apprentice.

"You'll fetch whatever Fleur asks of Mum?"

"Eh, yes," agreed Gabrielle after a brief hesitation. Duress, she reminded herself.

"You'll let me carry Louis around?" asked Ginny. "Well? Well?"

Snap.

v - v - v - v - v

"It is still, eh, swollen," complained Gabrielle, quietly, as she prodded her nose.

"It looks fine," declared Ginny. "I've had practice on noses. Well, Harry's nose. A bludger won't always turn him if he's on the snitch."

"My mozzer will see it. I am certain," sighed Gabrielle.

"You can't possibly be expecting sympathy from me. How did you even get in here? Hermione gave me that spell," said Ginny. Both young women were clean, the room was refreshed, and any bruises were soothed. Tempers as well. "Were you using one of the twins' Universal Unlockers? She'll right put out if it didn't work against those."

"Eh, non. I, eh, zought Harry was flying today?" asked Gabrielle cautiously. It was probably best to speak of the failed prank as little as possible.

"Were counting on it, you mean," said Ginny sharply. Gabrielle ducked her head, not so much in shame but as a way to keep Ginny from going back to the question of the locked door. "He is flying - or was. The Cannons were up against the Wigtown Wanderers today, with a chance to take over Wigtown's place in the standings. The club needed a quick capture; you get points for the win and for the differential, and with the Cannons you can't count on there being any differential if the match goes for any length at all."

"Eh, okay," agreed Gabrielle. If she was still getting the Prophet, she knew it would be filled with complaints about the day's outing being cut short.

"Harry should be along soon. The team's healer will have him patched up in no time," assured Ginny.

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle had excused herself to Ginny, saying that she should be making the tea for her father and Mr. Weasley, because Ginny really enjoyed talking about quidditch. Especially quidditch matches that involved Harry Potter, and since he had only been flying for most of one season, these matches were covered in great detail. Gabrielle had no intention, once more, of making tea because there was simply no way that she would be able to get past her mother unnoticed with her nose even slightly misshapen. Ginny, unfortunately, said that she should help, except that her should had meant would and will, and she followed Gabrielle out into the hall.

What Gabrielle had intended to do was to consult the beetle's wing, and to determine if George was properly on his way to see her after almost a whole year of not. She did not want to bring the faux beetle out when Ginny was around, though, since she was certain the redhead did not approve of the fact that she had it.

"The Falmouth match was the worst. Nevermind the cobbing, Winchendon took a boot to the head - he flew around the pitch half-tipped over. Didn't affect his runs, mind you, if I'm honest," described Ginny. Gabrielle dawdled in the hall behind her former target, wondering if Ginny would find it rude if she went back to her contingency plan, which was to jump out of the window.

"Everyone says there's a jinx if more than three dozen fouls are called," continued the latest Chuddley supporter. "That's hardly twenty minutes most games. And - what is it?"

"I, eh, can not - is zere anozzer way to ze kitchen?"

Ginny grinned. "There's two, and you've tried both. Though I doubt you remember much of the one."

"Eh, what?"

v - v - v - v - v

Gabrielle did remember the weird little tunnel that she had once chased Hermione's cat, Crookshanks, into. The mysterious space behind the small iron grill set low into the wall of the hallway was no larger than before, and certainly no cleaner. It was, however, much brighter. A bright yellow, jagged flame danced and flared on the end of Gabrielle's wand; Ginny had just cast a plain old Lumos spell, which was not as interesting. The occasional, quiet 'whuff' as masses of cobwebs burned away was something that Gabrielle was going to count as an unexpected bonus. Unless she was getting covered in ash.

There was no room to stand, and Gabrielle did not want to crawl through what could be centuries of dust and the dead bodies of the insects that fed the builders of the cobwebs. She followed Ginny by waddling along in a squatted position, rather like a duck. Ginny did just crawl on her hands and knees, and so quickly reached the sets of ladders that Gabrielle had not seen the last time.

"You must know a light spell, right?" asked Ginny, waiting on the ladder leading into the hole in the floor that Gabrielle had fallen through just before Fleur's wedding.

"Of course! But, eh, this is, eh, more useful." And cool. Whuff. "It is the Veela, eh, eh, patrimoine," explained Gabrielle.

"Does that mean arson? Only I don't fancy you setting the house on fire," said Ginny. "Again. I've heard of your little incidents too. I say little, but a whole forest - "

"It was only a few (mumble) trees!" dismissed Gabrielle, hoping that she did not have to clarify more.

"Ri-ight. Just be careful on the - wooden - ladder, will you?"

Gabrielle sighed. It was totally unfair of Ginny to bring up the past like that. Had she not spent an entire year working hard - being mature - to make sure she had a second chance? Did Ginny not know this?

Well, no, Gabrielle had to admit, Ginny would not know that. It did not involve Harry Potter playing quidditch. Which was a slightly mean thought, but could Ginny not at least see how she -

Oh mon Dieu, realized Gabrielle, of course Ginny could not see how she had changed! She had gone right back to the - and here Gabrielle shuddered - Patterns of Behavior that had ruined everything in the first place. What, wondered Gabrielle, was she even doing crabbing along this filthy tunnel?

Compounding mistakes, answered a scold of a second thought. The first was thinking to impress George, who should have been the one doing that for her. Did he not know this?

"Are you coming?" called Ginny, her voice echoing slightly as it came from the hole in the floor. "Only I think the ghoul sometimes gets in here." Gabrielle started down the ladder, not because of the ghoul but because she could not think of another way out. She did hold her wand in such a way that it was well away from the rungs of the ladder, though, to avoid adding a third mistake.

Gabrielle reached the bottom of the second ladder, and Ginny was on her quickly, whispering for her to put out her wand and to be quiet. "Why?" whispered Gabrielle in the darkness.

"There's someone in the kitchen," replied Ginny. With her eyes adapting, she could see Ginny pointing toward another low grill.

"Eh, what? What does that matter?" whispered Gabrielle. This was beginning to feel like a third mistake. Was it Maman?

"Well, half is that the other doesn't know that you know what you know," said Ginny cryptically.

"Eh, what?" complained Gabrielle again. The back door, she, too late, recalled, was the other way to get to the kitchen proper.

"It's something the twins say. Now hush, and let's take a look."

Gabrielle did not want to hush. She did not want to be in this dark, dirty crawl-space anymore. Her legs were getting very tired from staying in a squat, and she was sure that this was not a properly mature thing to be doing. Especially in a short dress. The tights helped, of course, but if there was someone in the kitchen and they did happen to look - well, it was where they might look that was the problem. Even if they could not see anything because of the tights. And the darkness. A second thought decided that that was stupid. Dressed as she was, all in black except for the scarf and Pepi-Z, anyone looking would do well to even notice that she was there.

The silent complaints meant that there actually was a hush, though, and Gabrielle could hear voices filtering in from the magical grate that was the exit to the kitchen proper. Was Ginny, wondered Gabrielle, going to make them wait until the room was completely empty? They were there for dinner - Mrs. Weasley would begin preparations soon, and did not Geff still sleep on top of the icebox? Well, she did not plan to stay here forever. That is assuming, thought Gabrielle, that she could find another way out. There just had to be -

The voices, one of the voices, caught her ear. It had to be George. Or Fred. Ginny was leaning over the grill, making it impossible for Gabrielle to get closer. Unless, of course, Gabrielle leaned onto the redhead, which she did. This did not go unnoticed, but there was a limit to how much Ginny could wriggle while not giving up her spot and staying hushed.

"About bloody time you showed up. No hurry to Chosen Ones, right?"

"What? I'm here before everyone else!" Gabrielle guessed that the second voice was Harry Potter's.

"Nearly everyone, I'll grant you that. Nice bruise - did the Cannons 'can' their healer?"

"It was Peregrine Derrick. Played beater for Slytherin, remember him? The Wanderers' beaters have wicked bats, but no real tactics. They do, erm, get lucky, occasionally," explained Harry.

"Might want to get that sorted before Ginny sees it. Or are you hoping that it's Ginny what does the sorting, eh? Smooth." Gabrielle's heart leaped. This had to be George. Unless Harry and Fred had patched up whatever had caused their falling out - no one could tell her what that was about.

"I'm fine. I was in a hurry, you know. Is, erm, Ginny around?"

"And you brought the pudding. She'll be lucky to get - married - to a thoughtful young chap like you," said likely George. That definitely did not sound like something that Fred would say. "No, no - don't run off. Let's see what you brought, then. If it's one of Verity's 'beneficial fiber' rutabaga-kale abominations…" Definitely George!

"I asked the house-elves to make it. What do you think?"

"What do I think? I think your over-inflated ego needs a bursting jinx. Seekers - honestly. 'G' is for Gabrielle, you self-centered, insufferable prat." Might be Fred after all, reconsidered Gabrielle.

"Huh? Too long over the cauldron today? What's that about?"

"It's an 'H'. Not enough coverage in the Prophet for you? Surprised they haven't change the name to the Daily Potter."

"If it was a letter, which it isn't, because it's the towers with the main doors open, it could be a 'H'. 'H' is for Hogwarts," declared Harry. "She's going to Hogwarts. I thought everyone knew?"


End file.
